are more pleasing than others.”
Dear God, but her hair was more glorious than he’d imagined, reaching past her bottom, a thick luxurious curtain of liquid mahogany. Who the deuce established the rule that women should wear their hair up?
Combing his fingers along her scalp, he brought her hair forward. Surrounded by a frame of dark reddish-brown tresses, the harsh planes of her face retreated, her eyes grew softer, her cheeks not so sharp. Younger. She appeared remarkably younger.
He hadn’t expected the loosening of her hair to change his perception of her to such a degree. She wasn’t beautiful; he didn’t think she’d ever be a beauty. But neither was she stark lines. Neither was she unattractive.
He cradled her delicate face between his large hands. He hadn’t realized until he tilted it toward him that it did indeed appear fragile, like hand-blown glass that could be easily shattered by carelessness. He’d deliberately not worn his gloves, wanted to give her an opportunity to demand a chaste marriage if his touch offended her, but she seemed not to notice the roughness of his palms.
Instead her eyes took on a dreamlike stare, as though she thought he was about to bestow upon her some fine gift. A part of him wished he’d never instigated this moment; another part of him was terrified of disappointing her, failing her as he’d failed Margaret.
But no hope existed for him now, no possibility of turning back. He’d set his course, suggested they get this phase of courtship out of the way. No turning back, he thought again. Even if she didn’t relish his kiss or his rough hands. He would take her father’s money, give her a child, and kiss her while doing it.
He lowered his mouth to hers.
The brush of his lips over hers jolted Georgina into awareness. She’d begun to think he’d never get around to it, and when he finally did…such a brief thing. Like a butterfly landing on a petal and then deciding it saw a prettier flower.
After all the preparation of removing her from her horse, loosening her hair, cupping her cheeks, and angling her face as though he didn’t trust her to know how to meet his mouth—which she didn’t, but that was beside the point—she’d expected something more.
His mouth returned to hers, the pressure subtly more as his fingers slid into her hair and his thumbs skimmed over her cheeks in slow, sensuous circles. His mouth was larger, and yet it somehow seemed to fit perfectly.
Then he parted his lips slightly and whipped his tongue along her mouth, from one corner to the other, over the top, along the bottom, across the seam, claiming territory that until this moment had belonged exclusively to her. She’d never expected a kiss to entail a man taking this much liberty. Was this what he’d meant by doing it right?
Did Lauren know a kiss involved more than lips? That a man’s tongue also played? And when a man kissed a woman from the top of her head to the tips of her toes and everywhere in between, did he use his tongue then as well? Did he stroke and swirl and apply pressure—
“Open your mouth.”
His voice carried an urgency that had her obeying without a second thought. His fingers clutched the sides of her head as his tongue swept through her mouth. Boldly, brazenly. Strange how the heat created by their mouths spread through her limbs all the way down to her soles. Tendrils of pleasure reached out and curled inward. He shouldn’t havetaken her off her horse, because her legs were growing too weak to support her.
As though sensing her struggle to remain standing, he wrapped one arm tightly around her and pressed her flush against his chest. He groaned low, and she felt the rumble vibrate against her breasts, over them, through them.
She couldn’t expect him to do all the work, to keep her upright, so she wound her arms around his neck. He had such a firm neck, corded muscles she hadn’t expected of a gentleman.
But neither had she expected this slow
Dear God, but her hair was more glorious than he’d imagined, reaching past her bottom, a thick luxurious curtain of liquid mahogany. Who the deuce established the rule that women should wear their hair up?
Combing his fingers along her scalp, he brought her hair forward. Surrounded by a frame of dark reddish-brown tresses, the harsh planes of her face retreated, her eyes grew softer, her cheeks not so sharp. Younger. She appeared remarkably younger.
He hadn’t expected the loosening of her hair to change his perception of her to such a degree. She wasn’t beautiful; he didn’t think she’d ever be a beauty. But neither was she stark lines. Neither was she unattractive.
He cradled her delicate face between his large hands. He hadn’t realized until he tilted it toward him that it did indeed appear fragile, like hand-blown glass that could be easily shattered by carelessness. He’d deliberately not worn his gloves, wanted to give her an opportunity to demand a chaste marriage if his touch offended her, but she seemed not to notice the roughness of his palms.
Instead her eyes took on a dreamlike stare, as though she thought he was about to bestow upon her some fine gift. A part of him wished he’d never instigated this moment; another part of him was terrified of disappointing her, failing her as he’d failed Margaret.
But no hope existed for him now, no possibility of turning back. He’d set his course, suggested they get this phase of courtship out of the way. No turning back, he thought again. Even if she didn’t relish his kiss or his rough hands. He would take her father’s money, give her a child, and kiss her while doing it.
He lowered his mouth to hers.
The brush of his lips over hers jolted Georgina into awareness. She’d begun to think he’d never get around to it, and when he finally did…such a brief thing. Like a butterfly landing on a petal and then deciding it saw a prettier flower.
After all the preparation of removing her from her horse, loosening her hair, cupping her cheeks, and angling her face as though he didn’t trust her to know how to meet his mouth—which she didn’t, but that was beside the point—she’d expected something more.
His mouth returned to hers, the pressure subtly more as his fingers slid into her hair and his thumbs skimmed over her cheeks in slow, sensuous circles. His mouth was larger, and yet it somehow seemed to fit perfectly.
Then he parted his lips slightly and whipped his tongue along her mouth, from one corner to the other, over the top, along the bottom, across the seam, claiming territory that until this moment had belonged exclusively to her. She’d never expected a kiss to entail a man taking this much liberty. Was this what he’d meant by doing it right?
Did Lauren know a kiss involved more than lips? That a man’s tongue also played? And when a man kissed a woman from the top of her head to the tips of her toes and everywhere in between, did he use his tongue then as well? Did he stroke and swirl and apply pressure—
“Open your mouth.”
His voice carried an urgency that had her obeying without a second thought. His fingers clutched the sides of her head as his tongue swept through her mouth. Boldly, brazenly. Strange how the heat created by their mouths spread through her limbs all the way down to her soles. Tendrils of pleasure reached out and curled inward. He shouldn’t havetaken her off her horse, because her legs were growing too weak to support her.
As though sensing her struggle to remain standing, he wrapped one arm tightly around her and pressed her flush against his chest. He groaned low, and she felt the rumble vibrate against her breasts, over them, through them.
She couldn’t expect him to do all the work, to keep her upright, so she wound her arms around his neck. He had such a firm neck, corded muscles she hadn’t expected of a gentleman.
But neither had she expected this slow
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